Page 4 of Melting the Grump
Something warm and unwelcome curls in my chest. "What about me?"
"Wanted to know if you were always so..." He pauses, clearly enjoying this. "What was the word? Thorough. Wanted to know if you were always so thorough in your concerns."
Thorough. Not stubborn. Not difficult. Not a pain in the ass.
Thorough.
"Just doing my job," I mutter, grabbing my bag.
"Thought you might like to know she's setting up now," Walt calls as I reach the door. "In case you wanted to be thorough about inspecting her work."
I shoot him a look that would wither most men, but Walt just laughs. Meddling old coot.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing at the edge of Harvest Moon Plaza, watching Abigail direct a small crew of volunteers. Already, hay bales form the beginnings of what must be her planned maze, and metal poles have been driven into the ground, awaiting the lanterns she described.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s changed out of her dress into dark jeans tucked into leather boots, a rust-colored cardigan snug against her curves, and a mustard-yellow scarf knotted at her throat.
She thanks each volunteer by name, her laughter carrying across the plaza. The autumn wind catches her hair, red curls dancing around her face as she gestures toward the ancient oak that anchors the space. I hang back, taking her in—jeans hugging her curves, the scarf at her throat like a banner.
Against my will, I find myself admiring more than her organizational skills.
She turns suddenly, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes meet across the plaza. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she smiles.
I force my feet forward.
"Mr. Martin," she says as I approach, her tone light but with an edge of challenge. "Come to register more concerns?"
"Scott," I correct her. If she gets to be Abigail, I'm not going to be Mr. Martin. "And yes. Someone needs to make sure you're not creating a hazard zone."
She puts her hands on her hips, and I try very hard not to notice how the gesture accentuates her curves. Her cardigan pulls just enough to hint at the shape beneath, the kind of detail that sticks in a man’s head whether he wants it to or not. "Well then, by all means, inspect away."
I glance around, noting the electrical cables running along the ground. "These need to be secured and covered." I point to where one crosses a pathway. "Trip hazard."
"Already ordered the cable protectors," she counters smoothly. "They'll be here tomorrow."
I move to the metal poles. "Wind load calculations?"
"Can handle gusts up to forty miles per hour. The specs are in the folder I gave you." Her eyebrow arches slightly. "Did you read it?"
I had, actually. But I'm not about to admit it. "Parts of it."
"Which parts?"
"The important ones."
She laughs, the sound rich and warm, stirring something deep in my chest. "Of course. Only the important ones."
I continue my inspection, moving toward the hay bale maze. She follows, her boots crunching leaves alongside mine. The scent ofher perfume, something with vanilla and spice, mingles with the earthy autumn air.
"These bales will need fire retardant," I say, running a hand along the rough straw.
"Already arranged with the fire department. The chief is bringing the spray tomorrow." She steps closer, challenging me with her proximity. "Any other concerns, Scott?"
The way she says my name, slightly emphasizing the hard consonants, shouldn't affect me.
But it does.
"The cobblestones get icy when the temperature drops," I say, turning to avoid looking directly at her. "One good frost and your visitors will be sliding instead of walking."
